


in little ways, everything stays

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: 100 ways to say i love you, Fluff, M/M, Queliot trash, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, an ungodly amount of fluff, it's Eliot, there's probably gonna be some smut at some point tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin and Eliot don't always have to say 'I love you' to mean it.</p><p>(Based off of <a href="http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you">this</a> super adorable post)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pull over. Let me drive for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published foray into The Magicians fan fiction, so wish me luck. There's just not enough Queliot out there... So this is my probably super sappy attempt to get more out there.  
> The title comes from the lyrics of a Rebecca Sugar song - Everything stays/Right where you left it/Everything stays/But it still changes/Ever so slightly/Daily and nightly/In little ways/When everything stays

_1\. Pull over. Let me drive for awhile._  
  
"Quentin, oh my _fucking_ god," Eliot said finally. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
Quentin blinked from the driver's seat, rubbing his eyes with the hand not on the wheel. He squinted at the lankier magician on the other side. "Uh... I think I'm driving us home? As close to Brakebills as I can get, I think."  
  
Eliot rolled his eyes and immediately demanded something of Quentin. He had a way of getting what he wanted. "Pull over," he demanded. "Budge up. My turn. Let me drive for a while."  
  
Quentin blinked again, uncertain, at Eliot. "Uh... What?" Eliot huffed, running a hand through his messy curls. "You look like you're about to fall asleep at the wheel. Trade me."  
  
Quentin widened his eyes, almost comically. "Eliot," he said. "First of all, you'd probably kill us. Second of all, who are you? I mean, yeah, we could all use a break from Eliot-"  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"-but I'd like him back eventually, and third of all, do you even know how to operate a vehicle?" Eliot paused, frowning slightly, and leaned back in his seat. "That's a good point, actually..."  
  
Quentin stopped, furrowing his brow. "Wait, what," he said. "You seriously don't know how to drive?" Eliot shrugged. "Ditched Oregon when I was 15 and sort of got... Caught up. Didn't have much time to learn to drive when I was too busy learning to do magic."  
  
Quentin hummed acknowledgment. "Huh... I didn't think you were actually going to agree to that one." Eliot shrugged again. "Why?"  
  
"You just seem too... Cool, I don't know." Eliot put a hand to his heart. "Q! I'm touched, really." Quentin rolled his eyes. "Don't get a big head, Eliot..." Eliot snorted again. "I already have an enormous head, thank you."  
  
Quentin smiled faintly. "Any time. And thanks. For offering to drive, you know." Eliot rolls his eyes, which was as close to a smile as Quentin was going to get.  
  
"Don't mention it. You should pull over, though. I haven't had a cigarette, a drink, or fucked you senseless in, like... 3 hours. I'm not equipped to be chaste, Q. I don't think I can physically do it."


	2. It reminded me of you.

_2\. It reminded me of you._

Eliot tilted his head, examining the crudely wrapped, rumpled package thoroughly. He looked back up at Quentin and frowned. "What's it for?" he said. "It's not Christmas..." He trailed off. "It's not my birthday. At least, I don't think it's my birthday..."

Quentin shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Not a birthday," he said. Eliot sighed. "Is it an anniversary?" He groaned. "Oh, fuck, is it our anniversary? Did I forget it?" Quentin laughed easily, smiling faintly. "No, it's not an anniversary."

Eliot sighed again, flopping into a chair and pulling his long legs up with him, setting the package in his lap. "Then what's it for, Q?"

Quentin shrugged again, and fuck, it was kind of adorable. "It's just... It's not for anything. I just like you. And it reminded me of you."

"Oo," Eliot crowed, peeling at the wrapping. "You're too cute, Q," he said. He wasn't used to get presents just because. Quentin shuffled his feet, a light blush rising low on his neck. His head was ducked but he was smiling faintly. "I'm not cute," he said. "I'm manly as hell."

Eliot laughed. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," he said, going back to his present. He finally wrangled the brown paper off of the object, and then...

"Whoa," he said softly, lifting it up. The gift inside was an adorable sweater-vest. It was a rich royal purple that would go very well with his eyes and his favorite tie. "Q, this is..."

Quentin glanced back up, smiling faintly. "You like it?" he said shyly. Eliot laughed. He unbuttoned his vest and pulled the sweater over his head. It was ridiculously soft, too. Perfect.

"I fucking love it," he said seriously. "You're probably going to have to force me out of this."

Quentin laughed, peeking out of his shell a bit. He pushed his hair back. "Really? You mean it?" Eliot laughed, hopping up out of the chair and tackling Quentin into a kiss.


	3. No, no. It's my treat.

_._

_3\. No, no. It's my treat._

"Let me pay for you, you fucking nerd," Eliot demanded, his eyes glittering as he stared Quentin down from across the table.

"No," Quentin said, equally as fierce as he stared down his fellow magician. "It's my turn."

"It's not your turn," Eliot said. "You brought me to your favorite restaurant from when you were growing up. That's the most romantic shit. Let me pay. It's my treat."

Quentin sighed, one hand clenched into a fist under the table. "Eliot," he said, his teeth gritted. "I brought you to my favorite childhood restaurant. Let me pay as part of the gesture."

Eliot snorted. "We can share the gesture. Let me pay. Come on. Come on. Come on, Q." Q sighed deeply, dropping his head into his hands. He sat like that for a moment before he lifted his head.

"Eliot, do you even have money? Like, cash? Ever?"

Eliot stopped, leaning back in the booth. "Fuck," he said.

"Thought so. I'll go pay. Wait in the cab?"

"...You're paying for that too, right?" Eliot asked, sliding out of the booth.

Quentin sighed fondly. "Fine," he said.

"Thanks, Q. You're the best..."


	4. Come here. Let me fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a teensy bit angsty but gets very fluffy again. It's also a bit longer than the rest so far, haha. Thanks for the comments so far! We must band together in our hour of need, Queliot shippers.

_4\. Come here. Let me fix it._

Eliot spent exactly 5 straight minutes standing outside the door of the Physical Cottage praying to whatever god or goddess that was listening that Quentin wasn't still up. If Quentin was still awake, he would have a lot of explaining to do, and he really did not want to explain things.

He took a deep breath and finished his prayer before pushing the door to the Cottage open.

His heart sank as soon as the door opened. There was Quentin, adorable, awkward, naive Quentin, curled up in Eliot's favorite armchair in a very uncomfortable-looking position. He was hugging a pillow and snoring softly. "Dumbfuck," Eliot said softly. Quentin really was an idiot... He'd probably stayed up to wait for Eliot, too.

He still had a chance. Maybe he could still sneak into his room without waking him up... Easing the door closed behind him, Eliot began his slow trek across the room. If he could just get to the other side, he was home free. He hit needed to get to the other side.

He took a few steps as slow as he could possibly go while still making progress. Half way across the room, but the most dangerous part. He was passing right by Quentin's chair. _Easy, Eliot,_ he told himself. _What's that stupid-ass saying? Slow and steady wins the race? Well, be slow and quiet this time. Slow and quiet and you won't have to wake him up and-_

He was so absorbed in trying to convince himself to shut up that he didn't notice that someone had strewn the rest of the pillows about the room. He suspected Margo as he plummeted to the ground.

Maybe if Eliot were a more mild-mannered person, he would have been able to pull it off, still, but he was Eliot Waugh and he liked talking. A lot.

"Fucking shit fuck mother-" He gasped as his elbows collided with the wood floor and winced. The magician groaned to himself, his forehead thumping against the wooden floor. There was a soft shuffle of movement and a sleepy voice called out from beside him. "Eliot? 's that you?"

Eliot rolled his eyes, flipping over and sitting up, still not facing Quentin. "No, it's the Queen of England. Who the hell else would it be?" Maybe he sounded a little harsher than he intended to, but he hadn't had a good day. He'd apologize later.

Quentin shifted in Eliot's armchair, glancing towards him. "Are you alright, Eliot?" he asked, frowning. "You were late, and..."

Eliot shook his head, hauling himself to his feet. "I'm great, sweetheart," he said, striding towards the back of the chair and patting Quentin on the head. He could still do it, his bedroom was right there, he was almost-

"Eliot, c'mere."

Elliot sighed, turning just barely, still not far enough for Quentin to see his face in the din light of the room. "I'm tired, Q. Hurry up. I want to go to bed. In my actual bed. Which is right there." He took another step towards his room when Quentin leaned over and tugged on the cord of the lamp.

"Eliot. Come here," he repeated, more urgently this time.

Eliot winced at the harshness of the light. He sighed softly before turning the rest of the way towards his lover, his chin up and his head high. Quentin's soft intake of breath was loud to him in the silence and the stillness. "Eliot... Come here. Let me fix it."

Eliot sighed deeply but obligingly picked his way towards Quentin and sat down on the coffee table in front of his armchair. His nose was covered in bright red blood and he had a great-looking black eye on his right. Quentin scooted forward in the chair, reaching out. His hands were shaking just slightly. Eliot closed in his eyes, bracing himself for the contact that never came. "What happened?" Quentin asked quietly. Eliot breathed out before opening his eyes. Quentin's hand were in his lap. "Some dicks," he said. "Thought people at Brakebills were over the whole gay thing, but apparently I overestimated them."

"Eliot-" Quentin started, but Eliot cut him off. "No," he said. "Don't... Don't, Q. Please." Quentin sighed softly then finally spoke again. "Why didn't you fight back? I know you can."

Eliot shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "Thought I'd try this... Moral high ground, be-a-better-person thing you've been yammering on and on about. Have to say, it's not my cup of tea." Quentin laughed, smiling faintly. "Come here," he repeated. "Let me fix it." Eliot arched an eyebrow. "You're not a healer, Q," he said. "If you'll allow me to point out the obvious."

Quentin shook his head. "I'm not," he said. "But I learned a few simple healing spells. Let me try them out." Eliot laughed slightly. "So I'm your guinea pig, now, then, Q?" Quentin shook his head. "No," he said. "Eliot, just let me try. Please."

Eliot huffed slightly. "Fine," he said. "But try not to kill me, yeah?" Quentin snorted, sliding out of the chair and kneeling on the floor in front of the other man. He reached up, brushing his fingers against his cheek lightly. Eliot flinched at the touch, but Quentin quietly assured him. "It's okay, Elliot... It's okay."

Eliot relaxed a minuscule amount, his eyes fluttering shut. He breathed deeply as Quentin trailed his fingers over Eliot's face softly, whispering under his breath. A sudden warmth spread over him, and when Eliot opened his eyes, the blood was cleared away and the swelling had gone down considerably.

When he opened his eyes, the air smelt like Quentin's shampoo, Eliot's favorite sweater, and faintly of cigarette smoke.

"Does it feel better?" Quentin asked nervously. "Part of the spell was something about smelling your heart's desire. Part of the healing..."

Eliot laughed, pushing his hair back, and briefly kissed Quentin on the lips.

"Thanks, Q."


	5. I'll walk you home.

_5\. I'll walk you home._

"Oh my _god_ , Q, you'll never guess what just happened," Eliot said, staggering up Quentin who was sitting at the bar with a glass in one hand and a book in the other. Sometimes he just needed to be away from other people and recharge.

Quentin glanced up from his book, the first book of the Fillory and Further series, to see Eliot staggering towards him. The taller magician was dressed very cleanly, or he would be if he was completely out together. He'd managed to undo most of his buttons and sling the front of his tie around so it was over his right shoulder. He was also holding a half-drunk wine bottle in one hand.

"Eliot," Quentin said with a laugh. "You need to sit down. Or go home. I'll walk you back, okay?" Eliot shook his head aggressively, waving the bottle. "Look, Q!" he said, throwing his legs over a barstool to sit next to Quentin. "Look at this piece of artwork."

Quentin squinted at the faded label on the bottle. "I have no idea what I'm looking at," he said honestly, leaning back and closing his book. Eliot huffed, looking genuinely offended. "This is Screaming Eagle Cabernet," he said. "1991. A bottle of this went for 500,000!" Quentin shook his head slowly again. "I can honestly say I have no idea what that means."

Eliot sighed deeply and pulled the cork off the bottle and took a deep inhale. "This deserves to be savored when I'm sober," he declared. "I'll save the rest of it for later." He stuck the cork back on not so easily. "I can't believe you, Quentin," Eliot said. "Why am I..." He hiccuped. "Why am I even dating you?"

Quentin rolled his eyes. "Because you're an idiot, and I'm an idiot. We have companionable idiocy." Eliot giggled. Actually giggled. "That was really good wine, Q," he said. "Like... Really good." He grinned. "You should come dance with me," he said suddenly.

Quentin laughed, pushing his hair back and tucking his book under his arm. "I'm an awful dancer," he told Eliot. Eliot was about to drift away again, but Quentin reaching up to pull him down with his tie stopped him, Quentin planted a kiss on his lips. "Come on, Eliot. I'm not letting you walk home alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was nice to write happy!drunk Eliot for once. He's usually so angsty. Not to say there won't be angsty!drunk Eliot later


	6. Have a good day at work.

_6\. Have a good day at work._

"Have a good day at work," Quentin said cheekily.

Eliot threw him a dirty glare before turning back to the mirror, tying his tie with nimble fingers. "Don't talk to me," he said. Quentin laughed, tossing the covers back and clambering over the bed. The semester at Brakebills wasn't starting for a few more weeks, but he'd come back a little early this year.

Eliot, on the other hand, had a job to do.

"I can't believe Henry asked me to do this," he said with a sigh. "It's 'cause Dean likes you," Quentin said, flopping on his back so he was watching Eliot get ready upside down, his feet tangled in the covers. "He only likes me because I've spent virtually every day here since I was accepted," he told Quentin, tugging on his tie to straighten it when he was done.

"What exactly are you doing?" Quentin asked. Eliot rolled his eyes, spinning around on his heel. "I'm supposed to wait outside and show in the stragglers," he said. "Because if I hadn't have been out there, you wouldn't have made the exam, and he apparently does not want a repeat of that. So basically, it's your fault I have to get out of a very warm, comfortable bed and go stand outside and wait around with a bunch freshmen." He said the word like a freshman wasn't a very good thing to be.

Quentin had to agree. "Good luck with that," he said. He crawled back to the top of the bed and flipped the covers back up, burrowing under them. "Oh no," Eliot said. "You're not getting away that easily... I still have time before I have to be out there. And who cares if I'm a little late, anyway?"

He prowled over to the side of the bed and grinned, pouncing and tugging the blankets off of Quentin. He squeaked and tried to pull them back, but Eliot was not to be deterred. He tugged them out of Quentin's hands and pressed a kiss to his lips. Quentin laughed, putting his arms over his face.

"You have to go to work, Eliot," Quentin said with a laugh. Eliot snorted. "Not yet," he said, ducking his head. In covering his face, Quentin left his neck exposed. Eliot sucked on his collarbone, trying to pull off Quentin's sleeping shirt. "No," Quentin said, laughing and trying to pull his shirt back down, a new hickey on his collarbone. "Dean'll be mad if you're not there."

Eliot groaned. "Q," he complained. "He won't hate me that much... I get to call him Henry." Quentin shook his head, smiling. He leaned up and kissed Eliot on the lips before pulling back. "Have a good day at work," he said, pushing Eliot off the bed with his feet.

Eliot would deny the noise he made tumbling off the bed.


	7. I dreamt about you last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Been a while! I'm not going to promise regular updates, but expect more from this, and definitely more when the next season comes out.

7. _I dreamt about you last night._

Eliot was no stranger to dreams. Good and bad, he'd had them all.

Sometimes he still had a recurring one from when he was a kid about traveling to Fillory and becoming a king, except he was older. Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he wasn't. Nowadays, more often than not he wasn't alone. He was perched on his throne with the High King's crown on his head, and Quentin Coldwater was next to him. (Sometimes - and this was his favorite dream - Quentin was sitting on top of him and they got up to all sorts of mischief together.)

Sometimes he still dreamt about the day he left his sperm and egg donors' - he refused to call them his parents, they didn't deserve that title - house. That one wasn't near as pleasant, but it helped get him to Brakebills, to magic, so he didn't complain too much. He'd just rather not relive that night too much.

That particular night when he had a particularly good dream, Eliot was tired. He didn't get near as much sleep as he should and he was forever exhausted, so it didn't come as a shock to him that he was tired. He wandered into the Physical Cottage, grateful everyone else appeared to be out. He didn't care that it was just 7:30, he needed to sleep.

He peeled his vest off as he crossed towards his bedroom. He dropped it beside the door and soon his socks, tie, and button-up followed until he was in just in his pants. Eliot flopped very ungracefully on top of the bed, not even bothering to wiggle under the blankets, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Eliot was woken up who knows how much later by someone pulling on his pants. Normally he wouldn't be too opposed to someone - if that someone happened to be Quentin Coldwater - pulling on his pants. But he was trying to sleep. "Q," he mumbled, pressing his face into the pillow. "'m tryin' to sleep..."

There was a huff of air from above him. Quentin pulled harder, and Eliot's nice slacks finally gave. "Quentin," Eliot moaned, his voice muffled. "You can't sleep in that, Eliot," Quentin finally said. "Here, put these on." A pair of lounge pants landed on top of him, and it was with great difficulty that Eliot hauled himself up to tug them on.

He dramatically flopped back down onto the bed. He pulled himself under the blankets and if he'd looked up before he fell asleep again, he would have seen Quentin Coldwater smiling.

Eliot woke up again who know how long later. This time, it wasn't because of a bad dream. This time, it was because of a very good one. "Wha's goin' on?" he slurred sleepily, the blankets shifting around him.

"Go back to sleep, Eliot," Quentin murmured, tucking himself under the blankets and pressing up next to Eliot. "Okay," he said, and he did, and this time he wasn't alone.

The next time he woke up, this time in the morning, he was alone, but the bed was warm and there was a glass of water on the bedside table. He sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist, and rubbed his eyes. "Huh," he said out loud to himself. "Weird."

He tossed the blanket off and wandered out of his bedroom. Quentin was sitting in Eliot's chair playing cards with Margo. "Hey," Eliot said. "Hey," Quentin echoed back, his eyes still on his hand.

Eliot's lip twitched slightly. He had he had the vaguest recollection of Quentin climbing into bed with him. It may have been a dream...

"I dreamt about you last night," he told him. Quentin glanced back slightly, his cards held between two fingers. "Did you?" Q asked. "Was it a good dream?"

Eliot smiled, and was completely honest when he answered. "The best."


	8. 8. Take my seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Season two is getting to me. I have resurrected.

_8\. Take my seat._

Quentin was dead on his fucking feet. The day had been excruciatingly long and he just wanted to head back to the physical cottage, have a drink, and go to bed.

Unfortunately, however, he could not go back to the Physical Cottage, because it was in Brakebills and he was in Fillory. He could not have a drink because his annoying boyfriend had not perfected the fermenting spell he was working on. He could not sleep because he was a king, and he apparently had a job to do.

Being a king was a sweet gig. Quentin couldn't lie. It was very, very nice job. He was a king in a country he'd only dreamed about as a kid, so he didn't have anything to complain about.

Except that he very, very much did. He had to ride out at dawn to some far-off farm to take them more of Eliot's shit. (Not Eliot's shit, but he fertilizer he'd somehow concocted.) He got to the farm and dropped off the shit. Simple enough. About halfway back to the castle, however, his horse - thankfully, it was not a talking horse - decided to bolt off into the woods, dumping Quentin into a muddy puddle in the center of a dirt road.

Fantastic.

He picked himself up, resolved to just walk home. He spent much of the hike back thinking about how his next decree was going to be paved roads. He loved Fillory, deeply, but there were some things it lacked.

Like paved roads and alcohol.

How he missed alcohol.

When he finally dragged his sorry, soaking ass back into the castle, the sun was setting again. It didn't take him long to arrive at the throne room, and he couldn't help but smile at the sight.

Eliot, who already reached an imposing height, was standing on his throne, waving his hands around and very dramatically declaring, well... Something. Quentin wasn't thinking about that.

Eliot spotted Quentin and beamed. "Darling," he said, stepping down from his throne. "You look and smell like shit. Take my seat." Quentin hesitated, frowning. "Uh, you know I have my own, right?" Eliot nodded. "Yeah, I know. Take my seat."

He climbed on top of Quentin's throne and resumed very royally declaring whatever it was he was talking about as Quentin took a seat.

His day got a lot better because he had a very good view of Eliot's ass. He didn't even think about the shit much anymore.


End file.
